


right where it hurts

by chii



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Cock Warming, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, M/M, Safeword Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:36:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chii/pseuds/chii
Summary: A small period of time where Shiro doesn't have to give, he's just required to take. It's harder than it sounds.-Kmeme fill: Shiro is the sub in a relationship with either Keith and Matt, and during a particularly intense scene he is triggered and has to use his safeword.





	

**Author's Note:**

> be the sheith content u want to see in the world esp when the fandom is actively on fire i guess? anyway I THINK!! A LOT!! about masochistic shiro and just like, what it'd TAKE for him to go to Keith with this in canon, and like hsksjh so much other shit no one care about but listen I just really love bottom Shiro, esp a bottom Shiro who subs for Keith (even tho I'd put money on them switching.)
> 
> [original post here](https://voltron-kink.dreamwidth.org/1161.html?thread=549001). that said this is not reflective of a healthy way of doing things and there are Clear Issues with certain aspects of it but I don't think they would have done TOO much research into SSAC and know all the ins and outs of BDSM and how to do certain things so my guess is they just muddled along with what they knew.

“Fifteen, thank you, sir,” Shiro rasps in one long breath, arching his back in response to the hand that drags along the red-hot curve of his ass, pinches at the equally warm line of his thighs. There’s a moment to breathe, finally, Keith standing behind him with his hand resting lightly, fingertips dragging back and forth over the over-sensitive skin. Every so often, Shiro flinches when his fingers press at a tender spot, shivering. 

Words are a little hard to reach for and wrap his tongue around right now, but he’s managed numbers, thank yous and the _sir_ tacked onto the end of everything he’s said. That gets him Keith circling around to the front of the desk, winding a hand through his hair affectionately with a low _good job_. Then, the grip on his hair tightens close to the scalp and he can’t resist tugging at it just a little bit, just for that brief swell of almost-pain and the knowledge that Keith has him. 

“How are you?” Keith asks and Shiro hums in response, pressing a lazy kiss to Keith’s wrist in lieu of answering verbally right now. They’ve done this enough that Keith no longer gets worried when Shiro goes non-verbal; he gives Shiro an extra beat to recover and then circles around to his back again, keeping a hand on him at all times. “Sitting in Black is gonna be fun, later.” 

There’s no response required but the dry comment gets a huffed out little breath, almost a laugh all the same. If he needs, he’ll spend a few minutes in the cryopod to get the pain and bruising down to a more manageable battle-ready level but they’ve only had to do that a few times; the cream they use afterward is often enough to get rid of any lingering discomfort. Right now, he’s not concerned with it. Right now, he’s floating, letting Keith trail fingers back and forth over his back until he squirms, not quite sure where they’re going next. Underneath where he’s pressed to the desk, he’s becoming distantly aware that the table is damp with his sweat, cooling now that he’s not focused on the the steady weight of Keith’s hand dropping against his skin.

“Hold on.” There’s the sound of the desk’s chair sliding back and the clatter of things being rearranged briefly before Keith returns. One hand motions Shiro to stand up from where he’d been leaning over the desk and guides him to Keith to where he settles in the chair, legs spread. It’s a little difficult with his hands bound behind his back; his arm is deactivated for this, the magcuffs around his wrists keeping his human hand lashed to the one he can’t move either way. It makes rising and kneeling difficult, but manageable, especially when Keith uses a hand to guide and steady him. 

Keith stripped down to everything but gloves and boxers around an hour ago and Shiro hasn’t been wearing a stitch of clothing since they started this but that’s the point; he doesn’t need to. He goes to his knees in a smooth movement, the cold metal flooring is jarring against his skin before he adjusts and shifts a little to get a touch more comfortable. The discomfort of kneeling is part of his request, though, which means there’s no pillow, no blanket underneath. The ache of the back of his thighs and his ass only adds to it, leaves him squirming to find a good position. Once he’s found one, he realizes Keith was watching the whole time, the pleased twist of his smile making Shiro’s belly clench with want. 

Finally, Keith settles and Shiro waits obediently for him to lift his hand; when his fingertips leave the table he eases forward again to get close enough to work. With no hands, it’s difficult but that, too, is part of the appeal. What Keith needs of him is to complete the task set out for him. It doesn’t need to be graceful, or pretty; he shifts until he’s able to get Keith’s cock into his mouth and then groans softly around it, eyes sliding shut. There’s no need for teasing, or trying to work him back up to full hardness all over again; they’ve still got plenty of time for Keith to get hard again later. That’s not the focus here. There’s nothing for him to do but kneel there and take what Keith’s giving him, to let Keith guide this how he likes, how he thinks is best for Shiro right now. 

Soft, it’s much easier to hold Keith’s cock in his mouth. He tastes faintly like salt and skin but the heavy weight of him on Shiro’s tongue is _good_ , warm and familiar. After a little adjustment and a roll of his shoulders to loosen his back, he rests his cheek on Keith’s thigh and simply kneels there while Keith winds a hand through his hair, petting him slowly. Like this, he can go back to floating, breathing slow and even through his nose while Keith does whatever he does when Shiro’s like this. He’s never figured out if Keith actually reads the datapads he goes over, or if it’s just for show, to give Shiro a moment to focus on the few things Keith wants him to. It doesn’t matter _what_ Keith’s doing when Shiro’s on his knees for this. For once, there’s no thoughts about training maneuvers, or Gladiator levels, or even Voltron; he knows what he has to do, what’s expected of him in this room, does it and gets rewarded (or punished, which is its own reward.) 

There’s no danger of him falling asleep like this, but when he does start to adjust his weight a little bit more than usual, Keith glances down from the datapad he was looking over and pushes Shiro’s bangs out of his eyes. Knowing better than to move or draw off, Shiro simply tilts his head up a touch, keeping Keith’s cock in his mouth. He doesn’t suck - it’s tempting, _oh_ , it’s tempting, but Keith still has a while yet before he can go again and Shiro’s holding out for the idea of Keith working him open with his fingers and cock later. 

“Your legs are gonna go numb if you do this any longer,” Keith points out, which doesn’t merit a response because it’s not a direct question or check-in; it’s a statement of fact. They must’ve hit the point where Shiro normally taps out or Keith’d seen the discomfort fading from something good to something a little less ideal. Either way, he winds his hand into Shiro’s hair and tugs him off of his cock with a wet pop. Just the noise is enough to get Shiro’s cock interested and the rest of him wondering just where Keith wants this to go next. Keith swipes his thumb across the wet swell of Shiro’s bottom lip and lets him chase it - _makes_ him work for it. He pushes the finger between Shiro’s lips for just a second and then pulls back, wiping the line of dampness across his chest casually. “Back up on the desk.” 

It’s even less graceful to get up from his knees while his hands are behind his back and his legs have started to ache from the position but he manages, wobbling and turning so he faces the desk again, getting ready to bend over it. 

“No, other way,” Keith drawls, just casually enough that Shiro hesitates, not quite sure why he’s so pleased with himself. He obeys either way; it’s not his job to question, but whenever Keith’s that nonchalant it means that there’s something he’s thought of. The magcuffs get released, the power line between them shutting off briefly as they’re switched to magnet mode meaning they’ll attach to the desk. “I haven’t touched the front of you, yet. Lie back down on the desk.” 

Oh. _Oh_ , no, he realizes why Keith was so pleased with himself as soon as the backs of his thighs touch the cold lip of the metal desk and he jolts. They don’t do much with temperature play but he knows, he _knows_ that lying down on the table is going to ache at first, right down to his bones. There’s no hesitation because this is what Keith’s asked for but Shiro tenses despite it, gingerly lying down on the desk, face up. Keith hasn’t ordered him to be quiet, so he lets himself make the noise he wants to - a short, ragged little groan escaping when the heat of his thighs and ass connects with the chill of the desk. It’s good - it’s _good_ , but it aches at the same time until the metal finally catches up with the heat of his body and soothes it. The contrasting sensations are enough to have him squirming, breath trembling out of his chest. 

“Hand here,” Keith says, grabbing his Galra hand to position it where he wants it, straight down near where his hips are, the magnets fastening his arm in place. It’s not like he’d be able to move it anyway, deactivated as it is. His human hand is positioned similarly, fastened to the desk with a soft metallic click of the locks engaging once more. He can always slide them across the desk to free his hands, or if he tugs his wrists toward the seams in the cuffs they’ll release, but it gives the illusion of a lack of control right now which is what he’s aiming for. Keith looks him over for a moment, appraising and then nods. “Good boy.” 

Once, he would have protested he hasn’t done anything yet; he’s just taken, he hasn’t given. Now, he presses his cheek against the cold metal and squirms under the attention, warm down to his toes in a way that has nothing to do with the hour Keith spent making his ass red. “Thank you, sir.”

Like this, his legs hang a little awkwardly off the desk, feet not quite flat against the ground. Keith’s hand stays on him the whole time while he gets whatever he’s planning on using next, the creak of his leather glove familiar. Finally, he has whatever it is because the hand on his shoulder drags down, traces over his pecs. Fingertips circle his nipples lightly a few times and then there’s the sharp, sudden pressure of Keith pinching at one, just hard enough to rip a groan out of him. Without pause, there’s another pinch and Shiro jerks against the cuffs, back arching. It does what Keith no doubt wanted - gets Shiro to lift, to push himself up from the table which means when he settles back down with his full weight, it’s another reminder of the ache that’s there. 

“Hurts, huh?” Keith murmurs, smile knife-sharp in the dim lighting, just the barest flash of teeth. 

Against his thigh, his cock starts to stir again, fattening up when Keith goes back to the idle touches and then rakes his nails down Shiro’s chest, just hard enough that they catch on his nipple and send him shifting again, shuddering. His mouth falls open with a gasp when both of Keith’s hands shift, spreading over his pecs to squeeze once and his fingers pinch at Shiro’s nipples again. It’s harder, more deliberate, a pinch that _pulls_ until he whines and Keith’s fingers drag free with a noise that’s almost a snap from the pressure. 

“I think I want you to turn over again when we’re done here,” Keith murmurs, flicking a nipple with his index finger, sending Shiro jerking again, but his hands don’t move. “Put both of these,” another tug at Shiro’s nipples that has him arching, following it as far as the bindings allow, “against that cold metal--” 

“Sir, please-” He’s not sure if he’s begging for that to happen or for it to be put off but it doesn’t matter; it’s Keith’s decision. His human hand flattens against the chill of the table and he pulls against it again, mostly instinct. One hand doesn’t respond but the other strains against the cuffs and for a moment, it’s significant - it’s - 

“Where are you?” Keith asks and without warning there’s the sharp sensation of his hand against the meat of Shiro’s thigh, the slap loud enough that it startles him back out of whatever he was thinking.

“Here, sir,” Shiro says belatedly, blinking up at the ceiling as he tries to adjust, to sink back down. He doesn’t need to do anything here - Keith’s going to take care of him and like this it’s so, so easy to let him, to trust him to take the reins. He just has to let himself do it. Keith doesn’t even comment on the very obvious lie, but Shiro knows he noticed; he didn’t ask the question without reason. On his opposite thigh, there’s another slap, mostly noise rather than pain and this time, he doesn’t jump as much. True to form, they work up from the open-handed slaps to something a little harder - more intent behind each strike, Keith alternating between landing hits against his thighs and going up to his nipples, teasing them. 

Keith grabs something from the desk; he hears the faint clatter of him searching through the tools he’d brought to Shiro’s room tonight. Whatever he found earlier obviously wasn’t quite what Keith wanted. Shiro waits patiently until it’s found, tensing minutely when he doesn’t feel anything where normally Keith would introduce it. He tenses _further_ when Keith keeps the hand on his belly stroking idly but doesn’t land anything, not quite sure what the delay is. It feels-- he doesn’t know how it feels, but waiting isn’t _good_ and when he tugs at the bindings on his wrists again, he frowns. 

“Shiro, relax.” Keith dips back into view, leaning over him, brows furrowed. “What do I need from you?” 

The question’s a familiar one - nothing too complicated for a response, usually only used when Shiro needs to hear it. 

“Just be here, sir, ” Shiro responds, breath hitching when Keith makes a noise in acknowledgement. 

“Nothing else,” Keith reminds and there’s the solid thwack of one of the tools against the top of his thigh, a pause and then another smack on the opposite one. It jolts him out of over-thinking things again, the sharp impact enough to drag a ragged groan out of him. Keith starting up again tugs him back down; the snap of something that feels like a ruler, the smack of a hand, the pinch of fingers against his nipples and then process repeating all over again. They’ve gotten better at this since they started; Keith knows the best areas to hit, where to avoid, what gets Shiro down the fastest even if he’s not the best at _staying_ there.

Just like before, he doesn’t make any noises until Keith’s warmed the area up and starts with something a little harder, working soft hitches of breath out of him and keeping him there, nothing so hard that it drags a shout out of him. At a particularly tender spot, he shudders and his leg twitches, losing his footing momentarily. He has to adjust, planting his feet, trying to push himself back up but his hands don’t move and the table’s cold where his body wasn’t. 

It’s -- there’s something _off_ about it and he tugs at the bindings again when another strike lands on the inside of his thigh, pain sharp and jarring, tearing his focus. The locks are supposed to disengage but he can’t move his arms and it’s not -- he can’t move his _arms_. His chin touches a shoulder when he lifts his head enough to look, trying to figure out _why_ , but the Galra arm is just dead weight and doesn’t respond. 

A shadow grows on the wall, creeps up it like a spider, like oil oozing across water - whoever’s in the room with him shifting into the light enough that he seems larger than he is and he knows it’s Keith _he knows_ , but his hands are pinned to the ice-cold table and they’re not moving and he’s back on their table again. He can’t be back on their ship again - he escaped, he knows this is real and the dreams he has aren’t but this isn’t a dream and -

_( Haggar’s table, the press of the metal under the thin clothing they give him, the white-hot pain that happens every time and he--)_

\-- he tries to sit up and fails, pinned to the table in the chilled room. He’s suddenly, awfully hyper aware of the cold metal under him, the feeling of the bindings clamping over his wrists and the realization that they’ve already taken one arm and seen how he performed with it - they’re intending on taking the other. 

“Red- Garrison, Garrison, Keith, Garrison--” The words spill out of him all at once and he doesn’t know if he’s articulating them properly or if it’s just a slur of panicked vowels and syllables. He jerks his wrists up against the bindings - they’re supposed to come loose when he pulls but they’re _not_ , he can’t get up, and he jerks against them again, heart in his throat. 

Abruptly, both of them pop loose and his human hand jerks up, nearly socking Keith in the face with how hard he pulls, suddenly able to move it again. His other arm’s still dead weight which means his attempt to sit up is aborted before it even starts; when he tries, he’s sharply aware of the ache of his thighs and how heavy his arm is. The panicked, animal noise that slips out of him doesn’t even _sound_ like him but he can’t stifle them or the anxiety despite how idiotic he knows it is.

He’s on the Castle. His arm’s still there, they deactivated it for this and his real hand - his human hand, is still whole. He flexes it once just to prove the point to himself and then realizes that Keith’s leaning over his Galra arm and has the panel open to power it back on. “Sorry, shit, sorry, Keith, I’m fine, it’s fine-” 

“Stop-- Shiro, just stop, it’s fine, okay?” The sharpness of his tone make Shiro flinch even if he knows that it’s not directed at him - there’s a lot to focus on between getting Shiro’s arm working again and getting him up. Keith seems to realize it because as soon as the arm’s booted back online; he reaches out and strokes a hand over Shiro’s jaw, voice softer. “Really. You did what you were supposed to. You promised me you’d tell me if it was ever too much. Get into the bed for me.”

He wants to protest that he doesn’t need help getting to the bed, but his breath is still caught in his chest and his heart is pounding like a bird’s trapped in there, throwing itself against his rib cage. Between the soreness from their scene, the panic a tick ago and everything else, he takes the help offered. Gingerly, he puts his feet back on the ground and staggers over to the bed, face down rather than up for the moment. If he tilts his head he can still see Keith, though he’s a few feet away, grabbing something from off the counter. 

Logically, he knows that that’s the point of the safeword- to tell Keith if it’s too much, but that doesn’t stop his mind from working overtime. It doesn’t silence the small, nasty part of his brain that refuses to shut _up_ now that he’s thinking, pointing out that he should’ve realized sooner, should’ve anticipated that this might make him react, even if he hadn’t really known. 

The cuffs were a new addition to what they did; truthfully, he hadn’t been sure he’d even remotely enjoy them but after a few careful attempts, he’d found that both of them had. It added to handing over control to Keith and normally wasn’t an issue given that he could tug his wrists to either side to open them. That’s what he _hadn’t_ done when trying to get out of them, though; he’d pulled straight toward the ceiling, acting on instinct. 

“Shiro,” Keith’s voice drags him back out of his head and he blinks once, fuzzily, focusing in as Keith settles onto the bed next to him and hands him one of the silver water packs, already punctured with a straw. “Hey. Where are you?” 

There’s no floaty warmth, no lassitude that comes from a particularly good session. If anything, he feels on edge - words are still difficult enough that it’s frustrating to try and articulate anything and no part of his mind wants to really cooperate. 

“Here,” he manages after an unsteady breath and misses the straw the first two times that he goes for it, clumsy. Frustrated, he puts both arms underneath himself and braces like that on his forearms. His human hand holds the water carefully so he doesn’t squeeze it too hard and send it all over the bed while his Galra hand ends up buried underneath the pillow, support for him propping himself up. The awful, anxious feeling starts to bleed out of him with each passing second but with it goes what little pleasant buzz there was. Left behind is the heat of his skin becoming all the more apparent, aching faintly when he shifts on the bed to take the next water he’s given, draining this one slower. Beside him, Keith’s tense with worry and doing a poor job of hiding it but Shiro doesn’t want to try and find words right now only to mess it up. Instead, he shifts his weight on the bed and adjusts until he can pillow his head back on Keith’s thigh. Hopefully, it’s taken for the semi-peace offering that it is; when Keith’s hand settles in his hair and starts combing through it, he blows out a breath, relieved.

“I’’m gonna - do you want the blankets or a bath?” Keith asks suddenly, jarring Shiro out of his thoughts. Bath or blankets - he doesn’t know. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to move and the idea of getting up into the bath seems like an impossibility right now but he’s also not sure if Keith wants to be under the covers when they’re both covered with stale sweat. He could-- “Shit, sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Shiro, I’m gonna go get the cream and a snack, okay?” 

“Okay.” That’s easier - there’s nothing required of him but lying there and while some portion of him regrets that it’s still Keith taking care of him, there’s a part that recognizes that’s how this part goes. This is, specifically, the part that Keith seems to like best when it’s all said and done, though normally it’s under different circumstances. 

The bed shifts with the addition of Keith’s weight - when did he even _leave_? - and then there’s the sound of the small jar being twisted open. During most play sessions, Keith’d smear it on while it was still cold, partially for the way Shiro jumped every time and partially because Shiro liked the contrast of hot and cold while he was winding down. This time, though, the cream’s warmed before Keith slides a gloveless hand over the swell of his ass, a cool trail in its wake. _Normally_ the bruise balm is for when they’re avoiding the cryopods because the injury is just a bruise that needs to heal a little faster. If he and Keith go through their tubs of it a little faster than everyone else, well, it’s chalked up to training. 

“You think you can eat afterward?” Keith asks from behind him, his hand sliding down the meat of Shiro’s thigh, working the cream into the skin in slow, steady circles that are just firm enough to be felt but not so much it aches. 

“I’m not really hungry.” He’s not sure he’d keep anything down if he tried, anyway. The water settles cold in his stomach despite having eaten earlier and everything still feels _off_ despite Keith’s careful ministrations. He wants to apologize for it but Keith would never let that fly so instead, he finishes the second water and presses his cheek to the pillow until Keith’s finished. The front of him doesn’t need it - they barely had a chance to get started on anything too intense before it went to shit. 

Keith’s hand comes back, touching his ankle while the cream is placed back on the counter and there’s the crinkle of some sort of snack before he comes back, fingers tracing up his leg, over his hip rather than skating over his ass like it would normally. “I’m gonna keep it near the bed for right now, anyway.” 

There’s no point in arguing that he doesn’t want or need it - he will, later, but right now, the gentle pressure of Keith’s hand at his shoulder is good. He can get up if Keith needs; distantly, he realizes that he’s not sure where Keith’s going to fit if he’s lying on the bed like this. 

“Sit up just a little for me,” Keith instructs and he follows it instinctively, moving where he’s tugged and guided, the order easy to follow. He winds up bracketed between Keith’s knees , with Keith’s back against the headboard and Shiro’s cheek pillowed on his belly, human hand spread over the sharp jut of his hip. It’s enough skin-to-skin contact that it’s almost _too_ warm at first until he starts to cool down, gradually adjusting. Under him, Keith wiggles and then settles, hand back to combing through Shiro’s hair, smoothing it into place and then ruffling it with his next pass. 

For a while, no one says anything. Shiro’s grateful for it; it lets him come back down entirely, lets him settle into his own skin again and figure out exactly what happened, where things went awry. Once some of the jitter fades, he tips his head just enough to press a kiss to Keith’s belly, fingers tracing constellations over the few scars that are accessible to his hands. 

“I think it was the table and the wrist cuffs,” Shiro admits finally, voice low in the quiet of the room. Above him, the hand in his hair stops and then restarts when Shiro noses into Keith’s belly, encouraging. “With my arm turned off, I couldn’t move them and I forgot how to open the cuffs.” 

“I figured, when I saw you fighting against them.” Keith doesn’t apologize, doesn’t curse, doesn’t do anything but listen to him and keep petting, dragging the covers up to Shiro’s shoulders when he starts to grope for them, distracted. “I think - I don’t want to include the cuffs in anything we do for a while. Watching that was-- not again.” 

“Okay. We’ll leave it out. I don’t think I can...do that again anytime soon, either.” The request isn’t surprising in the slightest. Shiro hums his acknowledgement and shivers when Keith’s hand dips lower, tracing the nape of his neck and down over his shoulders with the same soft pressure, just a touch of nails so goosebumps rise in the wake of his hand. “I liked everything else, though.”

He can feel Keith’s hum even as he hears it, a low rumble that’s oddly soothing. With the rush from earlier gone, along with the endorphins, he’s _exhausted_ , eyes lidding the longer he lies there on top of Keith. He ought to get them up and showered before they fall asleep, but that means getting out of bed and stopping Keith’s slow, steady strokes of hand against his back. 

“Don’t even try it.” He can almost feel Keith’s frown from above him and the hand on Shiro’s back pushes through his hair, grabbing a handful close to the scalp and _pulls_. It’s not too sharp, nor is it mean but it’s firm and Shiro reacts despite himself, lips parting on a shuddery little breath, looking up at him. After what’s happened, he’s not really interested in approaching or revisiting sex, but Keith getting grabby and pulling him around like that will always get a reaction.

“I wasn’t going to try anything,” Shiro lies, knowing that he’s as transparent as can be. The hand in his hair releases and a little pleased, Shiro presses his cheek back against Keith’s belly, nuzzling into his bellybutton just for the way it makes Keith squirm. “You’re right, though. Getting up isn’t in the cards right now.”

It isn’t in the cards for either of them, given that Keith has a few hundred pounds of muscle and Galra tech resting on top of him.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on me, though.” It’s an accurate prediction: Shiro feels his eyelids getting heavier. To add fuel to the fire, Keith scoots down to lean back more into the pillows than against the headboard and Shiro adjusts in turn. That alone solidifies the realization that neither of them are going to get up in time for any sort of dinner. It’s not going to be the same sort of restful sleep he gets after a good scene, but now that the sour feeling of fear is gone, he’s slowly sinking back into his own body and with that comes the growing sense of exhaustion. 

“Probably,” Shiro yawns and then gropes for Keith’s free hand, winding their fingers together loosely. He’ll do a load of laundry later. Right now, letting Keith take care of him - which in this case means both the petting and the crackle of the snacks opening up- that’s enough. They’ll try again later, maybe, but now he knows what to look out for and what to try differently in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> 4000 word meta about how long it takes for shiro to let keith do half of the shit i want to write keith doing to him and another 4000 words of meta on TRUST and FEELINGS and how much they MEAN TO EACH OTHER and how CONFLICTED SHIRO IS ABOUT WANTING This Sort Of Thing and just AHHH. unbetad, all issues/errors are mine.
> 
> anyway hey if you wanna yell about fictional idiots and stuff i'm over [here](https://twitter.com/SarahKFetter) on twitter.


End file.
